Like Your Father
by HeyI'mTalkingToYou
Summary: Neville always wanted to be just like his dad. Oneshot.


March 1987

There were pictures of Neville's father all over Gran's house. There was a picture of Frank as a young boy, covered in mud and holding tight to a frog; a picture of Frank wearing Hogwarts robes and grinning ear-to-ear as he waved his brand-new wand; a picture of Frank flying by, all decked out in his Gryffindor Quidditch robes; pictures of Frank showing off his prefect and Auror badges; a picture of Frank dressed in his best robes, waltzing with a radiant Alice; a picture of Frank, asleep in an armchair with his baby son in his arms.

But there were no pictures of Frank as Neville knew him: a silent, thin man with limp brown hair who stared sullenly at Neville every time he visited with Gran. Trips to the Janus Thickey Ward always made Neville slightly uncomfortable. He would sit quietly next to Gran while she told his father every detail of her life since their last visit, including gossip about the neighbors and complaints about her aging house-elf, Wimzy. Neville never really understood why she insisted on doing this—it wasn't as though his father could understand her—but he didn't comment. He didn't need to bring any more of Gran's frustration down on his head.

On the Knight Bus home, Gran would always tell Neville stories about his father the way he used to be, a strong, confident warrior who always seemed to be rushing into danger. But one Sunday in March, Gran was silent on the trip home. Neville sat nervously beside her and wracked his brains, trying to remember if he'd done anything wrong.

Gran didn't seem mad, though; she looked—tired. When they got home, she didn't start in on a tirade; instead, she told Neville to go play outside, and walked over to the fire.

Neville happily obliged, and running out the back door, he broke a twig off the old birch tree and began to run around, pretending to cast spells on everything he saw. However, his "magical" spree was cut short when he tripped over a rock and went sprawling right into his grandmother's prize begonias. "Oh, Gran's gonna _kill_ me," Neville moaned as he brushed dirt off of his shirt. Reluctantly, he abandoned his wand and walked inside to tell his Gran what had happened.

When he got to the door of the sitting room, though, Neville froze at the sound of voices coming from the room. _Gran wasn't expecting visitors today_, Neville thought, confused, and leaned his ear against the keyhole to listen.

"…sure it will be fine," said the voice of his Uncle Algie. What was he doing here?

"But," protested his grandmother, "he's almost seven. When Frank was his age, he'd already shown his magic many times. I remember his first accidental magic," she continued with a little laugh. "I told him he couldn't have a pony, and he got so upset that he blew the dog up to three time its size. Frank rode that poor thing all over the house before I got the chance to change it back…" Her voice drifted off, and then she went on in a completely different tone. "But Neville—he hasn't shown any magic at all yet. And he's so… quiet. I just don't understand why he can't be more like his father."

Uncle Algie said something, but Neville didn't hear it. He pulled his ear away from the door and trudged up the stairs. Gran was right, he thought miserably. He hadn't done anything yet that proved he was any more than a Squib. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned to look at a photograph of his dad standing proudly with a group of other young wizards, a shiny Auror badge flashing on his chest.

Staring into his dad's eyes, Neville was struck by a fierce determination. "I'm gonna be the best wizard ever," he promised. "I'm gonna be just like you." _And Gran is gonna see it, too._

July 1992

Neville was eating breakfast across the table from Gran when the owl tapped on the greenhouse window. Gran glanced over, annoyed at the intruder interrupting her morning meal; however, when she saw the tawny feathers of the messenger and recognized the large seal on the letter it carried, her face quickly changed from aggravated to excited. With a speed uncommon for a woman her age, she stood up, hurried to the window, and took the letter from the owl. "Neville!" she exclaimed, walking back to her chair and opening the letter, "your marks are here!"

Neville knew full well what was in the envelope, and could barely bring himself to smile at his gran. _Please be good, please be good,_ Neville silently prayed, holding his breath as he watched his grandmother's expression.

"Herbology, good… History of Magic, that's a silly subject anyway…Charms, alright…" her expression slipped into a frown. "Barely passing in Transfiguration and Defense?" Gran's gaze flitted momentarily to the picture of his father, grinning and standing proudly, wand in hand, by the Hogwarts Lake. Neville's heart fell for a second—he knew exactly what was coming.

"Transfiguration and Defense were your father's best subjects in school. Why, Professor Holliway told me once that Frank had the quickest Disarming Spell he'd ever seen in a student…" Gran seemed to have momentarily forgotten he was there. But then, her eyes snapped back to reality, and the expression she fixed on Neville made him want to melt into the carpet. "You'll never be able to follow in your father's footsteps if you don't study harder."

Neville swallowed and looked down at his feet. "Y-yes, Gran. I—I'll try harder."

"Straighten up and look me in the eye when you speak," Gran admonished. "No one likes a sloucher." She leaned forward, studying Neville's face; nervous, he glanced around the room. Finally Gran sat back with a sigh, apparently unable to find what she was searching for. "You're so timid. Why can't you be more like your father?"

Neville had been wondering the same thing lately. That night, after he brushed his teeth, Neville stared into the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to find anything in his face that resembled the features of the handsome young man whose face hung in pictures all over the house. His hair was the same color, yes, and sometimes people told Neville that he had his father's eyes. However, his cheeks and chin, unlike those of his father, were slightly chubby, and his eyes betrayed a shyness that wasn't present in any of the laughing photographs of his father. With the words of his grandmother still ringing in his ears, Neville turned, disgusted, from the mirror, and walked toward his bedroom.

However, when Neville reached the stairs, he found his feet walking not up the steps to his bed, but down to the breakfast room. He stopped uncertainly at the door, and then pushed through it, walking to the picture that hung on the far wall.

Coming to a stop less than a foot from the picture, Neville stared up at the laughing face of his father. The man stood ever-confident, tossing his wand up into the air and catching it with an ease of movement that Neville had never known. A wave of animosity flooded over Neville, and, glaring up at the picture, he hissed, "I _hate_ you."

Immediately, shame replaced anger. His father had given his sanity to the cause of freedom. He had given everything to protect Neville, and what did Neville do in return? He was a sorry excuse for a son, he decided. Gran was right—he needed to try harder, try to live up to the legacy his father had left for him. With that, Neville turned and left the breakfast room, but as he glanced back at the picture one last time, he couldn't help but feel a knot of unvoiceable frustration in his throat.

July 1996

"You've grown," was the first thing Gran said to Neville when she greeted him at the train station.

Neville grinned back hesitantly, unsure of what to make of the strange fierce joy he saw in his grandmother's eyes. "Yeah," he agreed. "I might need new robes."

Gran simply nodded, and Neville picked up his trunk and followed her out to the curb. Gran whipped out her wand, signaling for the Knight Bus, and as they climbed on the bus, she shot him a slightly confused glance. "Where's your father's wand, Neville?" she asked.

Neville's smile slid off his face. He had been dreading this moment since Gran had picked him up at platform 9 3/4. "It—it broke, Gran," he admitted. "At the Department of Mysteries." Neville winced, waiting for the tirade. When it failed to come, he looked tentatively over at his grandmother to see a strange glint in her eyes.

"Well," she said finally, "I suppose we'll just have to get you a new one." She looked over at him, a small smile appearing on her usually-stern lips. "Running off to battle with Death Eaters at fifteen. You're a fighter, just like your father." She shook her head and grinned ruefully, not noticing that Neville had frozen in his seat. "I remember one night, about seventeen years ago, he and Alice were visiting me when he got a call from one of those Order blokes—something about Death Eaters attacking some house in Surrey. Didn't even blink, Frank. He just said he had to help, and rushed off…"

She went on talking, but Neville barely heard her. _Just like your father_. Her words echoed in his ears. She thought he was just like his father. And he was proud—or at least he was supposed to be. But he couldn't seem to get rid of a slight twinge of disappointment as Gran continued to reminisce about her son's courageous exploits.

December 1997

Gran's eyes grew a few sizes when Neville stepped off the train. The stuffed vulture on her hat bobbled as she hurried over to him and grabbed both sides of his head, pulling it down to her height. "Oh—oh, Neville," was all she could say as she stared with increasing intensity at the cuts on his face.

Despite his exhaustion, Neville had to smile—this was the first time he'd ever seen his grandmother lost for words. "Hi, Gran," he said as he pulled her hands away from his face and grabbed his trunk. "Let's go home."

Gran stared at him unapologetically the entire way back to the house, her jaw growing tighter and her brow furrowing deeper all the time. Despite himself, Neville began to feel a little nervous at her growing anger. He had battled Death Eaters—and more than once—and had endured abuse who knew how many times, and yet he still went weak-kneed at the thought of Gran's wrath. He chuckled and shook his head—things had changed less than he might have thought.

Gran was silent for the whole trip home, but as soon as she and Neville crossed the threshold of the house, she stopped and turned to him, a scarily familiar fire in her eyes. "I want to know everything those bloody _bastards_ did to my grandson."

Neville let out a breath and grinned wearily. "Okay," he said, "but it's a long story. Let me go unpack first."

Gran assented, and Neville began to drag his trunk up the stairs when a new photograph on the wall caught his eye. There, next to the picture of his father laughing with his Auror colleagues, hung a photograph of Neville bent over in the greenhouse, carefully pruning his Mimbulus mimbletonia. Neville smiled, gently touched his father's picture, and continued up to his room.

Later, as he and Gran ate supper, Neville talked almost continuously. He told his grandmother about the Carrows, about the DA, about the Muggle Studies classes, and he watched her expression carefully the entire time.

"Things are getting more serious," Neville finally said as he and Gran sat in front of the fire in the sitting room. "They took Luna off the train today, and I don't know where she is, or even if…" He trailed off, feeling vaguely sick, and looked away from his grandmother and into the fire. Luna was gone, and he didn't know what he was going to do without her. She'd always been the optimistic one, the one who comforted him when he got so frustrated he could barely speak, the one who talked Ginny down from her anger before she did anything especially stupid. She was gone, and Neville couldn't shake the thought that sat like a stone on his chest, the thought that he could be next.

Neville was pulled out of his brooding by a hand on his knee. He looked over at his grandmother and saw an uncharacteristically gentle expression on her face. "Neville," she said quietly. "I don't know what tomorrow will be like, I don't know what these buggers will do next…" She seemed lost for a second, but then she looked into his eyes with that familiar ferocity, "but I'm proud of you."

Neville was scared, and exhausted beyond belief, and he had no idea if he would even live to the end of the year. But Gran was proud of him. And that was enough.


End file.
